After the previous post, you deserve something gay, as in ‘brightly colored’.

A ‘folk artist’ and musician of our acquaintance who goes by ‘Tex’ (I’ve never asked him how that came about, though it’s the kind of snoopy question I might ask) created the work pictured here, enamel on tin, entitled ‘Spirit Bird’.

I once praised him on the precision of his painted lines, to which he replied that it was just ‘obsessivity’.  Wish my own produced pretty things.  Well, once in a great while, it does…

Tex is the nicest and gentlest person I know.  Image clickable.

As I’ve said before (that could cover a lot of territory), I find it a bit unseemly to parade one’s ailments on a blog.  That said (again), it appears I’ve amassed a small collection of just such posts, most recently one in January.

This post, I’m pulling out all the stops.  Well, not a l l of them.

Almost four weeks ago, I had cataract surgery on my right eye.  (Surgery on the left eye TBD.)  Everyone I know who has had this procedure has said it’s a piece of cake, results like Dorothy stepping from her dreary Kansas house into Oz.

 This has not been my experience.

I apparently have something called posterior capsule opacification, allegedly a common post-cataractectomy situation.  In early May I will endure a procedure to correct this — also characterized as a piece of cake.

I’ve heard ‘piece of cake’ before.

Cataracts and posterior capsule opacification become annoying and ultimately debilitating with light sources within one’s field of vision.  Everything becomes indistinct, with a haze around it, rather like closeups of Lucille Ball in ‘Mame’ (hopefully you don’t know what I’m talking about with that example…).

As Marshall McLuhan pointed out, staring at a TV screen is fundamentally staring into a lightbulb.  For months I’ve been essentially unable to read anything on the web, and have composed a handful of posts on Domani Dave in a word processor with the text size turned up to ‘real big’, like your Large Print Editions of books.

Poor Dave

Today — April Fool’s Day — is the 42nd anniversary of Stephen’s and my first date.  You’ve been told this at least ten times, the age of this blog, so one might well imagine there’d be calendars marked, cards, etc, but nevermind…

Last night, I had a dream which did not rise — or sink, rather — to the level of nightmare, that involved (short version) a stranger with designs on our house clandestinely changing the lock on the front door.

What do you think it means?  My own fallback in the interpretation of dreams is frequently seven years of plenty and seven years of famine, but this may just be my being lazy.

I await your analysis, but won’t hold my breath, if expecting you to remember April First is anything to go by…

Our friend Lynn H is ‘mindful’ of fashion.  She’s ‘sleek and chic and magnifique’, which in addition to being true, saying so also supports my contention that if it weren’t for lines and terms stolen from movies and plays, I’d be a semi-mute.

Miss H recently retired from a career in medical administration, and having nothing whatsoever to do with her professionalism, I’m sure it was somewhat of a relief for her coworkers from the standpoint of her having set the bar so high for office attire.

For several years Lynn gave me a magazine subscription to Town and Country, admitting that it was a publisher twofer renewal thing, not an attempt on her part to reeducate me to the finer things in life.

When I finally confessed to her that I felt something akin to embarrassment for the people who allow themselves to appear on the pages of the magazine, she decided to switch me off to Vogue, also a twofer situation for her.

I shan’t reveal to her that the issues tend to pile up still in their mailing wrappers, because eventually I do leaf through them a couple at a time before they hit the recycling bin.

The other day, I tackled the at-least-an-inch-thick anniversary issue which always requires a real commitment.  I routinely even with the less exhausting issues rip out the scent sample pages and place them here and there around the house, which nicely whores-up the place for a couple of days.

Click on the image below for a webpage about designer Cristóbal Balenciaga (1895-1972) who “had a reputation as a couturier of uncompromising standards and was referred to as ‘the master of us all’ by Christian Dior.”

See below what appears representative of the House of Balenciaga in Vogue these days.  WTF.  Do not tell me that Señor Balenciaga is not twirling in his grave.

Growing up in ‘the South’, I was exposed to many… mmm… ‘colorful’ expressions.  The expression used in the title is oddly enough not one of them.  I picked up this one from my friend George S, a native of the state of Maryland.

Of course, my friend Bill P of New Paltz NY would argue that Maryland belongs ganged with Georgia under the heading ‘the South’, but that would just be his being very ‘Northern’.  I steadfastly refuse to use the term ‘Yankee’, though Bill P did once call me ‘Rebel scum’, which was fundamentally, let’s agree, ungenerous.

I’ve not once in my lifetime been led to believe that snakes might actually have penises, consequently I have never researched the matter.  If snakes are in fact lucky enough to have them, I’m going to stick with guessing they are crooked.  What about you?

Give it some thought and get back to me.

The Academy Awards are tonight.

When I was a youth, and a pre-youth and post-youth (for a while), I would be fixated on the Oscars around (only) the time of their presentation.  Eventually one year I missed them, having completely forgotten they were upcoming.  What a relief.

This year, even though I’m bored to death, I won’t watch the Oscar ‘show’.  I’ve only seen Roma, which has been all the rage this past year.  Stumbled the other day onto a broadcast of the other year’s all-the-rage, La La Land, and I must confess I enjoyed it quite a bit.  On the whole, I’d rather enjoy a movie than endure one

Fifty years ago, I had a part-time job as a projectionist in an actual movie theatre, outfitted with old behemoths of 35 millimeter projectors with white hot arc light chambers, ten-pound CinemaScope lenses and all the rest.

The job was rather exhilarating — and for a while, terrifying — at the time, because one is absolutely in charge of the audience’s experience, an awesome responsibility.  I was very conscientious.

I have known a few managers of brick and mortar cinemas in my life, and they all maintain that projectionists are an odd lot.  I am proud [it’s true] to claim the brotherhood.

Here is a short video which exposes my focus on the subject of the motion picture.  You will either find it interesting, or five-ish minutes of your life wasted.

By the way, I did not die this past Wednesday during my heart procedure, thanks to my cardiologist, who by all accounts is brilliant, and by my own account also extremely cute.  I tell you the second bit to remind you that I am still cheap and shallow.  In that order.

I am inspired, to post these two pictures, by two recent posts by my e-friends Laurent and William (name-drops #1 and #2).

The first picture is of our splendid departed Margo having a stretch after a nap on one of a pair of Robsjohn-Gibbings, which we bought at the estate sale of interior designer Harold Westcott.  (Name-drop #’s 3, 4, and 5).

The second picture is a scan of a page out of a theatre program autographed by Miss Ethel Merman (name-drop #6) who was appearing in summer stock in Atlanta when I was fourteen.  When she emerged after the performance, she was wearing  a full-length mink coat.  Did I mention this was Summer

She began the autograph, and when the pencil tip broke, without missing a beat, snatched up a nearby pen to finish, resulting in a two-tone signature.

When I told RuPaul (name-drop #7) who was living in Atlanta at the time, about the Merman souvenir, nothing would do but his autographing in two colors his self-promotional pamphlet whose title cannot be printed here.

I’m hoping you have a short memory, as this Merman-RuPaul story is a Domani Dave repeat, but now with a facsimile of the Merman artifact.  The photo of Margo was recently sent to us by our photographer friend Martin.

So, why doesn’t Martin get #8 on the name-drop list?  Not famous enough.

(Images clickable)

Tomorrow I turn seventy-two.

I don’t feel seventy-two and am told I neither look nor act seventy-two.  However, nothing says ‘seventy-two’ like two procedures scheduled for the upcoming two months, cataract surgery and — like the one I had this time last year around my birthday — another cardiac ablation.

My medical tech friend says I should have gotten the extended warranty

Tomorrow is also the second anniversary of Trump occupation of Washington DC.  With something very like complicity on my part, the madness of the past two years has drained the life out of me.  I need some joy.

While I was in the hospital last week, Stephen gave me a new Apple Watch for my upcoming birthday.  I gave him the ‘old’ one I got to monitor my ‘vitals’ after I was in the hospital last year.  That model could read your pulse.  This new model can generate an instant electrocardiogram.

Nothing says ‘seventy-two’ like excitement over an instant EKG

Since deciding that I have not the wherewithal to blend subject matter, here is another unblended post.  This one has a Harper Lee half and a Truman Capote half, the author reunion completely accidental.

For reasons absolutely untraceable, I recalled the scene in ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’ recently wherein Miss Jean Louise Finch — witnessing poor Walter Cunningham ‘drowning his dinner in syrup’ — says, What in the Sam Hill are you doing?’

How in the Sam Hill did ‘What in the Sam Hill’ become an expression?  Wikipedia explains (click) and, serendipitously, I was introduced to the term ‘minced oath’.  Lightweights like gosh, darn, heck, moving on to ‘F’ and shoot, I had only known them as ‘euphemisms’.

Missing from these examples is ‘Jiminy Cricket’ (click) standing in for ‘Jesus Christ’, or more accurately ‘Jesus Christ’!  (‘F’ frequently interspersed…).

I don’t know about you, but I always find it a little disconcerting when sweet Dorothy Gale (under pressure, yes…) blurts this out in ‘The Wizard of Oz’.

The Truman half:

Last Saturday we attended a party, a large annual ‘Twelfth Night’ celebration hosted by two attorneys in town.  Our invitations to previous iterations had apparently been ‘mislaid’ — a fact that is actually pertinent, rather than petty.  Okay, a little petty…

Post-party, I thought of Truman Capote’s notorious ‘La Côte Basque 1965′, wherein one character asks another how such and such a party went, the reply: ‘Wonderful, assuming you’ve never been to a party before’.  Of another unfortunate character, she snipes, ‘She’ll attend the opening of an envelope!’.

At the party, I chatted with someone who is a fixture at every art opening I’ve ever attended here in town.  Parties?  How would I know [sad face]?  I said I’d just overheard someone say, ‘Most parties, all the same people. Not this one!’

He replied with a kiss (an air kiss, actually…) of ennui: ‘Hmm… no…’

We on the other hand had quite a nice time with old friends with whom we seldom cross paths anymore.  Captions for these (stolen) photos: 1) My beau with the remains of a plate of cheese straws he made  2) Ravaged buffet (cheese straws were coals to Newcastle)  3) Masks requested as a nod to Mardi Gras, I have no idea what we are looking at (mirror?), all I know is, nothing is that funny.

I tried and failed before Christmas to weave a festive narrative with the following elements; you will see the difficulty almost immediately.

1) A week to the day before Christmas, I was a micron away from a trip to the emergency room with food poisoning, apparently from a bowl of pho from a local Vietnamese restaurant.  Clearly delayed revenge for my participation in the U.S. military during the Sixties.

2) Someone backed into our new car in a parking lot causing a couple of thousand (not remotely difficult to do) dollars damage and just left.  Perhaps they didn’t realize they had struck a solid object when their own automobile stopped moving through space.  I don’t want to judge…

3) I was living on the island of Crete in the Mediterranean as part of an Air Force unit eavesdropping on North Africa in 1968, so this year is the fiftieth anniversary of the first time I’d spent a Christmas away from family.  It was a breath of fresh air at age twenty-one.

4) On the Winter Solstice, I wallowed in my annual viewing of ‘Scrooge’, the 1970 musical version of Dickens’ ‘A Christmas Carol’.  This time I noticed that after the Ghost of Christmas Present and Scrooge walk away from peeping through the window at Tiny Tim, the ghost says: ’What an unpleasant child!’

In this case, the line was delivered as a sarcasm, but I considered for the first time how someone viewing this movie might simply agree.  I hope someone backs into their car.

Happy New Year to the rest of you!

Photo clickable.

Why am I telling you this?

I started blogging in 2009, but in October 2016, I ditched the previous posts in a fit of cyber housecleaning. Some of it was really nice writing, but alas, as my old friend Susan once said: ‘Compulsion is a cruel master’.

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